


Parading my serenading

by Believerindaydreams (deepandlovelydark)



Series: Raging against the machine [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Comedy, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Legion-Aligned Courier, M/M, Slavery, Whump, eventually, there are several Benny and Arcade escape the Fort fics but this one is mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/Believerindaydreams
Summary: What's a down-on-his-luck hustler to do, faced with the nastiest army camp that's ever drunk from the Colorado?Escape, obviously.And while he's at it, bringing along Caesar's latest acquisition sounds like fun too.
Relationships: Benny (Fallout)/Arcade Gannon
Series: Raging against the machine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100771
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

It is, Benny decides, just his luck that he has to be guarded by the one man in the entire Legion who has a sense of humor. A terrible one. Even Tommy wouldn't stoop to putting this guy on at the Aces.

"So then Marharbal says to Hannibal, you have eyes but you don't know how to use them. And Hannibal says, okay, what makes you think that?"

He has, in his past, been a tribal leader. He's cut throats, dealt out soft little slugs when necessary. Depending how his luck is rolling, there's at least an even chance of talking his way out of this if he ever gets a shot. Sixty-forty if they'd let him have his lucky suit back.

"And Marharbal says, because someone's stolen our tent! Get it? Ha ha ha!"

Then again, maybe he's just going coco bananas from the torture. Atypical style, but no one ever accused the Legion of an overstock in the sanity department.

Benny gingerly fingers the purpling bruise across his windpipe, and almost wishes he'd let that damned Courier take a proper revenge.

Not really, but almost.

***

Arcade rearranges the too-short cushions in his barren tent for the hundredth time today, slightly exasperated by his profound boredom. Since the surgery discussion he's been mostly ignored, untouched, which is maybe the luckiest thing that could have happened. He has a straight razor. He knows what day the moon will be new. One way or another there's a chance for escape, left alone like this.

Though it also means he's cut off even from the broken intimacy of the other slaves in the fort, only seeing sympathetic faces during trough visits; water, at least, is permitted with contemptuous abandon. Free to spare, even for slaves...though supplies are something else, and the dried broc flowers packed in his coat's voluminous pockets are all but gone now.

It would probably make Julie laugh, that his research actually has been lifesaving for once. Although it's difficult to imagine a conversation where she hadn't already turned away from him in disgust, a Followers traitor...

His heart thumps hard again, it's not easy knowing even as much as he does about the delicacy of bodies. There are always crosses in the camp, blood dripping off flesh to pool in the dirt, screams that aren't permitted to last.

He's too intimately aware- too weak, that's the fairest way to describe it- to let himself in for such fates if there's any way to prevent it. Even saving Caesar. Even making polite, Latin-tinged chat in the evenings, when the war leader takes time away from battle plans to spin out philosophical fantasies with a literally captive audience.

His stomach growls, unduly loud; hunger's always worse when the camp cooks start roasting dinner meats, a strong and fiery smell. Oddly reminiscent of the one time the Courier had dragged them all into the Ultra-Luxe, distraction for the restaurant while they'd been up to...something. Sheer absurdity, that meal. He remembers Boone looking around awkwardly and toying with his cap, Lily drinking Nuka-Cola by the pitcherful, his own pleasure and mild shame at being the only one to understand the forks, looking normal by comparison with the crowd of misfits. 

Remembers feeling safe, which is unlikely ever to happen to him again. Not least because he has no intention of allowing a delusion like that, as far as he can help.

Of course, vying to stamp out hope is an ancient and fruitless endeavor, but it gives him something to think about as the guard opens the tent flap. Not good. It's a full three hours before he would normally be escorted to Caesar, at a time when the generals would normally be talking tactics. Sometimes he'll strain to eavesdrop, in the unlikely event that information could reach useful ears some day; sometimes he's too tired to even try.

They're all there still when he arrives. Silent, as Caesar smiles wanly at him, crooking a finger and speaking a single word.

"Enclave."

Oh no. Oh, no. 

He will die before letting the Legion in on that, stop drinking, stop eating, contrive to run himself through on a guard's gladius. "What's that? New Freeside dance-step?"

"I think not," Caesar says, slowly and almost sleepily. "At least, Orion Moreno disagreed. A pity he did not survive the journey here, or you would not be needed for this discussion."

Arcade hadn't thought there was anything more terrifying than the deaths this camp can offer him.

He honestly hadn't realised that living might be worse.


	2. Chapter 2

"A party? Baby, baby, pet rock with a sprinkling of agave nectar, do you ever have the right guy for this!"

The Vulpine grimaces. "That is not the intention."

"You sure? I haven't seen this much uncut dope since Big Sal's birthday bash."

The tent he's in now has more guards outside than the ones for actual prisoners, and he can understand why with a stockpile like this lying around. Every chem ever confiscated from some poor schmuck of a Legionnaire, priceless bottles of rare Nuka-Cola variants, enough booze to drink himself to death right now if he cared to. A veritable wonderland of bad boys.

"The last slave instructed to assist with the vomitorium died last week of dehydration. The mighty Caesar, may his name be praised-" and there is certainly a comfort seeing a guard trying not to be witheringly sarcastic, almost makes him look human- "has decreed that you would make a satisfactory substitute. It is to be hoped you will not fail him."

"Do I get access to the yum-yums?"

His guard moodily nods. "Insofar as is necessary for your task. If you fail, of course, Caesar will have your head."

"I always did like a boss with a good incentives plan."

The plan turns out to be almost ludicrously simple, not unlike a Fiend torture a couple of unfortunate Chairmen had run into on errands through outer Vegas; strap a man down and force-feed him so many chems that in the morning he'll have addictions to things that haven't even been invented yet. Dangle a packet of Fixer in front of his nose until he either spills or drops dead from shock.

"It is necessary for the slave to remain alive. Caesar's orders."

With an intonation that somebody should tell Caesar where to stick it. Presumably this particular guard got the inside job due to actually believing all that crap about preserving a sound body, etc.

Benny sighs, starts shoveling pure Jet into his pockets- it's been a while but everyone had a comfort fix and that's his. "It'll be easier if I knew what I was dealing with. Heavy, short-framed, already a junkie, what?"

"Caesar's personal physician. You may have seen him."

"You better believe it- wait, that cupcake? Enchilada in the lab coat and glasses? Strong contender for 'sexiest slave not yet beaten to a pulp?' Always barring my unhumble self, obviously, that's not a fair competition."

Nothing so invigorating as a chat with someone who is three seconds away from removing your eyebrows. "That one."

"Buddy, for him I'll light up so many fireworks they'll see it in the Boneyard."

***

The question at this point isn't whether he's going to die, the question is how many people he can avoid taking with him.

Arcade staggers along behind his guards, wonders if this is when the heavy stuff will begin. So far it's been mostly verbal- being put in a position to be grateful for Caesar's cockamanie babbling is a hell of a weight on what remains of his self respect, but every second engaged in that was a second of not being physically shattered. When there's no chance to stop the inevitable, postponement is the next best thing.

Eventually Caesar had tired of trying to talk him out of mute intransigence, and now he's out here, shivering in a cold desert wind. He's always wondered if he would be as brave as his father, given the chance. Looks like it's time to find out-

then they open a tent flap and shove him inside and it's not what he expected. Not at all.

There's actual mattresses in here, not just bedrolls, and a small stone fountain with trickling water and a radio in the corner with Mr New Vegas crackling out soft words. It actually looks welcoming, even with the guard in the corner staring him down.

Arcade ignores him. Kneels down, takes a moment to rinse his hands clean before gratefully cupping down sweet water. This doesn't exactly look like a torture chamber. Another few hours before they start their worst, if he's lucky.

"Hiya," the guard says. "Your place or mine?"

The utter banality of the pickup line juxtaposed with these surroundings throws him hard, even as his mind scrambles for an explanation and suggests that's exactly the result they wanted. "I've got a choice for my imminent demise?"

"Have at it. Liquor poisoning, psycho overdose, take your pick- no, it was an actual question. We have some extremely serious partying to get through tonight, so if you'd rather do it in your own tent lemme know, I'll get them to schlep the goodies over there."

"Uh. No, there's no need for that...this is fine." It's dawning on him that just because the man is dressed like the faction doesn't mean he sounds like it. Spy, maybe. One of the ones who works the Strip?

"Fantastic, because this was an all-singing, all-dancing deathclaw of a hassle to set up the first time, and I'm not real sure anyone's patience was going to stretch that far again. Know how they were gonna do this? A stretcher with leather straps to tie you down while you get force-fed cocktails...anyway, I said get that thing out of here, it smells like rotting Brahmin, and besides, the day I get drunk under the table by a Follower they might as well hang up black mourning at the Tops for Benny Gecko."

"...then I've, uh. I've heard of you." Is he actually hungry enough to be losing perception or is he just being an idiot. The chain of events that got him here is strong evidence for the latter.

Benny winks at him, opens a scotch and pours it into a shot glass. "Who hasn't. Got a favorite vice?"

He rummages feebly, finds a crate chock-ful of Nuka-Cola. Mostly the regular kind, but one bottle is cool to the touch, the special proprietary bottle process that retains the contents at icy temperatures.

Probably some unfortunate soul from Nipton or another ransacked town died, for this to be here. He toys with the cap, doesn't open it. "Torture has never been a very reliable means of gaining information. It's a way of manufacturing dramatic lies and utter hogwash, largely."

"Yeah, which is why we're not doing that- look, I came here to have a good time and chew bubble gum. If you're too self-flagellating to have any fun here, let me know and you can get passed to the next interrogator on the list, I understand it's something to do with dogs. And rawhide straps."

Postponed, not prevented. There isn't anything here that can force him to talk about what he's not allowing himself to remember.

Arcade twists the bottle cap off, tosses it in the air and slaps it down on his hand. "Call it, then."

"Heads."

He peeks. It's tails. 

Fuck this. He pockets the cap, takes a gulp of ice-cold cola, and resigns himself to a night of pure debauchery.


	3. Chapter 3

Goddamn, Benny thinks, he's tried everything.

Mixers, loadups, drinking games, snorts- he's thrown whatever this arsenal of corruption can offer at the blonde chicka-wowwow, and just been matched drug for drug. Sometimes the best way to win is to stop trying to control the game. 

He slides off the crate he's sitting on, allows himself to pile across the dirt in a fair representation of a drunken fit. Waits to see what Arcade will do.

Not a whole lot at first. The doctor continues blathering, seemingly unaware of a lack of audience participation.

"...and that's another thing that should have tipped me off, asking us all to move into the Lucky 38. Anyone comfortable with being spied on by the Strip's own personal overlord clearly has no problems with fascist leadership conceptually…"

Turns out Arcade is hard to coax into speech but impossible to stop once he gets started. Which would be great if he would squeeze out a few tiny words about the Enclave, a vertibird cache or a vault or anything, but he has steadfastly ducked every encouragement in that direction. 

It's at the point where Benny would really like to wave a hand or something, point out his supposed unconscious state, but that would be a bit counterproductive.

"...should have known at Helios. Turned the entire power supply over to something I still don't know what it was, but it certainly isn't going to New Vegas or the NCR…"

Benny, watching through carefully squinted eyes, sees the other man start to flush and sway forward, consistent with a chemical dependency starting to kick in. Holds his breath in case this is a breakthrough.

Instead, the bastard whips something out of his lab coat, applies it, and stops shaking immediately. Sprawls out on a cot with a smug look that has no business being that incorrigible.

Well, this has been a complete waste of time for everybody concerned. Might as well pretend to wake up now, go yell at whatever idiot in this camp thought that letting the doctor keep his supplies was a good move, they can start from scratch but stripped stark naked this time-

The rattle of a Legionnaire entering the tent is like the clank of doom.

"I see that you have not succumbed to the weaknesses of the flesh, like this charlatan here."

"Mmm. Of course not. Just regular Nuka-Cola for me, packed with fortified vitamins and minerals."

He's a better liar when he's being witheringly sarcastic, Benny notes. The fact that it took two to tango through all those Mentats being neither here nor there. 

"Whereas he has indulged much and accomplished nothing. Very well. We'll crucify him in the morning. Caesar in his mercy wishes to offer you one more chance to speak, before turning you over to the torturers-"

"Whoa. Wait, wait, you're going to crucify a man for not trying to overdose me to death?"

"For failing to accomplish his allotted task, certainly. What use is a slave who cannot serve his master?"

Arcade chokes in disbelief, finally looks at him; Benny blinks twice, quickly, just to communicate he's awake and heard that.

Could be worse. If they're quick enough he'll be dead before he loses this high.

"Well, see- that would be a mistake. A very big one, because I told him exactly what Caesar wants to know. He was very persuasive…"

"All of Caesar's power and you confess your secrets to that?" Somebody has clearly just failed his speech.

Arcade coughs. "You don't think he'd have gotten so carried away if he hadn't succeeded, do you? We weren't exactly in a hurry to leave."

"...I see."

The Vulpine could not be clearer that he suspects a pile of Brahmin shit if he came back with a trench shovel.

"Besides, uh- he was quite good in the sack. I'm not going to tell Caesar anything if he murders the best lay I've had since leaving New Vegas."

It's hard to tell whether that flush is chem aftermath or crystallized embarrassment.

Convincing, though. Almost makes Benny regret not trying.

***

Everything about this is bad, Arcade thinks.

He's standing in the presence of the most terrifying warlord from here to the ocean, still hopped up, and trying to bluff out a hand that involves devious backup from a man who presently is having distinct trouble standing.

It is an excruciating painful moment, watching Benny gaze at Caesar with a sort of slow-motion concern breaking over his face, and everything that ever made him run from the NCR, join the Followers, try to help out a courier who made mouth noises about wanting to change things, is fixating on this one idiot who got in too deep. The wasteland is a fantastic opportunity for the smart, the strong, or the enthusiastically bloodthirsty; but it's a bad place for idiots.

An idiot who offered the only scrap of human comfort he's had in this camp, by failing to be tough enough; and Arcade is entirely too aware how his Enclave loyalty complex is pitched to make him sympathise with this kind of disaster.

"Well?" Caesar asks.

"Mighty Caesar," Benny begins, with a noticeable slur in his voice; and Arcade cuts him off immediately.

"You were wise, Caesar, to ask for his aid in this. I've been...persuaded, to act as an emissary to the Enclave remnants."

It's true that the courier sold him out; but it's also true that if somebody under the protection of the Strip's idol can be dragged here, none of the others are safe anyway. Especially not if Orion spilled names before his death, and that's too likely to ignore.

There's a chance of winning them all an easy death, if nothing else.

"I will have to leave the Fort to meet them, however. They're an understandably suspicious lot, they wouldn't trust anyone besides one of their own. Once I talk to them, I can propose a meeting back here- I'm sure they'll agree to that much- and you can make your case to them in person. I can't promise they'll agree, but we can try."

The silence that stretches out after he finishes seems to go on forever; his breathlessness and Caesar's troubled breathing and a heavy weight against his shoulder that turns out to be Benny.

Napping, apparently.

"I shall miss you," Caesar says eventually; and Arcade wants to curl his hands into fists at that, spit, attack with a brainless hope of success; because there's no mistrust there, only wistful sadness. "Come back quickly, that we may converse again."

***  
"That was a hell of a line you sold him," Benny says, once they're safely back at the vice tent.

Arcade pursues his lips. "I'd like to think it was…"

He can't even convince himself anymore. Wherever the line is between lies and truths, if he's convinced Caesar of all people that he's legitimately on the Legion's side, what even matters about what he thinks compared to what he does? Maybe the courier had the right of him all this time, seeing someone who would break under pressure so fast, there was no point keeping him around...

"Love to see you at work in a casino- not mine, though, we don't need you breaking the bank."

"You don't really understand," Arcade says, straining to keep a tremble out of his voice.

"Sure I do. You went in there with nothing, you got out, we get to leave Caesar's camp tomorrow. That was a brilliant bluff. I tell you, I've been racking my brains trying to think up a good dodge to escape, and you have the absolute balls to just order him to let you."

Arcade finds himself itching to tell the truth, explain how it's nothing to do with him and everything to do with the family legacy, how he's betraying that, how he's already broken everything that ever seemed to matter in his life.

None of that seems quite right, though, to foist on someone coming down from every high imaginable and curled up on a cot like a particularly large cat.

"Yes," Arcade hears himself say. "I suppose it was a pretty good bluff."

Even if it isn't true, it helps to say it.


	4. Chapter 4

The trip to Cottonwood Cove is long and slow and peaceful, clean river air that's kind to breathe after that camp.

Benny leans back and stares up at the stars, letting his hand trail in the water. Like old times, when he was a boot rider and thought nothing of nights roughin' it under skies so clear, you'd think you could fall into them. Night sounds and low lights, the opposite of New Vegas.

Hadn't realised how much he missed that, until the journey to Goodsprings.

It's a little dismaying that he's the only one enjoying it. Ferryman is busy, to be fair, the doctor is hunched up and apparently trying to make that absurdly tall profile as small as possible. The four Legionary assassins certainly aren't, the way they're keenly scanning for threats in the middle of a river.

Yeah, something is gonna have to be done about them. Even on his own account, being escorted around the wasteland by a pack of trained killers sounds less than delightful. And it isn't just him- the doctor's speechless acquiescence to being told about their honor guard was just short of puking on his shoes. 

Of course, he does have the option to cut and run. Caesar's interest is in the Enclave, not a Chairman who's been muscled out of power; probably if he disappeared when they hit dirt nobody will care much. Arcade is a smart enough cat to account for his absence competently.

Which means, basically, he's home free. No fences, no responsibility, no tribe to look after- that's a new one that he'll never forgive Swank for, but what's done is done. Arcade's ramblings about the power play on the Strip made it clear that the Chairmen found a new leader to coalesce around, more power to 'em. They remember the old ways too, they won't be weeping for him.

For the first time in his life there's no reason pretending for an audience, and what's left of him without one doesn't seem quite enough to carry on with.

A mild snuffling noise interrupts his thought process; turns out the doctor's asleep. Not surprising. He'd had the look of a man who hasn't been on speaking terms with a queen bed for quite some time.

Benny, rather casually and gently, shifts the other man upright so he'll breathe better, and also to try a discreet check of those pockets just to keep his hand in. Handful of caps not worth taking, dead plants, but also something so special he swipes it before even stopping to think.

A rebreather. A portable one. The Legion doesn't go in for that kind of technological malarkey, so how the hell Arcade could have whipped the thing up from maize porridge and bent tin cans is beyond him but it looks like it could work. He's taken much stupider risks. Even if it broke down in the first five minutes, by then he could be so far off they'd never catch him.

He chews his lip, carefully starts to extract himself, finds he can't do it delicately. Arcade's managed to sleep-tangle them together, so his hand's stuck between wood and the doctor's weight. It'd take a good hefty shove to pry it out now.

Could be done. Three seconds, flip into the water, boom.

But hell...the man has saved his life. Good karma to return the favor, and he's a little short on that right now.

What clinches it is that even if his hand is slowly going numb, there's worse places for it to be parked than under a nice butt.

***  
Problem one: figuring out how to get rid of these assassins.

Problem two: find all the remaining Remnants and warn them.

Problem three: what the hell happens after that?

"You look busy," Benny comments. He seems incapable of letting a silence be.

"I am busy."

He's deliberately chosen the most isolated, winding route possible to Novac- Daisy is closest and the least likely to shoot him on sight, even if he does show up with the Legion in tow. But no point getting there sooner than necessary, so they're hiking along the Colorado canyons, trailing through beaches and swimming where necessary. At least it's cool.

NCR is bound to imprison them for being war criminals. The Brotherhood hate the NCR, but that's zero help without knowing where they are. No point even thinking about New Vegas while the courier is there.

For a moment he lets himself think that Orion had the right plan, they would be safer with the Legion, and the shudder that runs through him is so bad it gets noticed.

"Hey. You all right?" Benny looks almost concerned, which is certainly unexpected on those features.

 _"Si dormiam capiar."_ He can't help feeling slightly disappointed by the blank indifference from the assassins. "Rest is for the captured. Which we aren't, obviously, we're just prancing around the Mojave with this very respectful honour guard."

One of these days his propensity for one-liners is really going to get him killed, but Benny chuckles and it's a pleasant sound. He honestly can't remember the last time he heard laughter.

Maybe his hand finds its way into Benny's by accident, maybe it's on purpose; but it feels very comfortable there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arcade's Latin isn't quite right, but he's tired. It's more like "if I sleep, then I will be caught."


	5. Chapter 5

Arcade is toying with his plasma defender, a top banana of a device that would fetch enough on the open market to keep the New Vegas Followers in Med-X for months, kudos to him for a piece of selfishness. That is the thought process of a man who it's possible to have a reasonable conversation with, Benny has long since decided.

Conversation about what, though, that's the sixty four thousand cap answer. 

They're almost at Novac and it really is starting to look as though the doc meant his words to Caesar- no escape attempt, no mysterious mass poisoning of the assassins' purified water, it's downright disappointing. Were this up to him something would have happened by now.

It's possible, of course, that Arcade has been hoping he'll accomplish something but of the two of them, he isn't the one armed with the energy weapon. 

The big dinosaur is looming out of the distance, and Arcade stops them all a safe way from the bridge. 

"Now, this is going to be a bit dicey. There's a sniper up in the statue's mouth, and he has orders to shoot strangers on sight."

One of the assassins nods. "This is already known to the Legion, but you do well to speak of it. Continue."

"Right. Well, we wait until nightfall, and then we cross. The night sniper is a friend of mine so we shouldn't have any trouble, and meantime we all have a breather." Arcade slumps against a convenient rock, drinks thirstily from a dirty water. "All right?"

"I'd say very far from all right," Benny interjects. "What if he's sick or drunk and someone else is up there? What if he doesn't see you, or does but shoots anyway?"

Arcade's glares aren't quite as scathing as he seems to assume they are. "Okay, new plan. You go first, and if you get shot, we'll all know it was a bad idea."

The flatness his voice can take on, however, is really something else; and given the assassins are all nodding, he's stuck playing Johnny Guitar on a kazoo. 

It really isn't going to do his long term health any good, how sexy he finds betrayal.

***

One of the courier's more cold-blooded habits is coming to mind, the difference between finishing a thing optimally and just finishing it.

Just getting here, Arcade knows, that'll finish things. Getting out of it without being dead, that is theoretically good. Getting out of it with Benny still alive somehow seems more important than that.

Not really about his personality as such, or having spent a fair part of several cold nights pressed against the warmth of that stupid checked suit; it's just that a man is in one piece and not in Caesar's clutches, and he doesn't want to lose the scrap of consolation that comes from having helped there.

And given the choice, his dignity is a very reasonable price for someone's life.

Arcade puts a pleading note into his voice, the kind that was a constant tedious background noise with the Followers. "Hey. Benny, you know what? Now it's almost over, I could do with...oh, something a bit stronger than sarsparilla. You know how it is when you're, uh, jonesing."

The extremely dirty look Benny throws him makes it clear the other man saw him with the Fixer that first night, but it vanishes the moment one of the assassins looks in their direction. "Not sure. Is that even allowed right now?"

"We are here to protect you from enemies, not your own degenerate vices," the praetorian says in a resigned voice.

Benny whistles a note. "In that case, I may have borrowed one or two things...got a particular favourite or take pot luck?"

"Super snail." The assassins aren't idiots and they'll be prepared if they hear it's turbo, but Benny might be familiar with Freeside's odder nomenclature.

He is, judging by the speed at which the stuff gets thrown at him; Benny drags out a smile with way too many teeth in it. "Mind if I join the high? Nothing makes me so sick as watching someone else have all the fun."

"The more the merrier."

One of the assassins makes a noise of disgust, then of heat. "That one in particular is forbidden. I will confiscate it now."

Damn, damn, damn. Well, he's tried.

"How about Jet, then?" 

There's not really any point now; but there's no good raising suspicion either. And Benny looks so legitimately cheerful about it, it'd feel like tipping a Brahmin to refuse.

Anyway it appalls the assassins, which makes the comedown headache worth it.

***  
Crunch. Crunch.

This must be how that courier felt, Benny thinks. At least he'd had the decency to let them stay unconscious until the last few moments.

Whereas marching up the road into the barrel of a sniper rifle is not only terrifying, it's taken forever. He's almost hoping to get it over with by now.

Crunch. Three more steps to go until he hits the bridge.

Two.

One.

The next step never lands, though, because something smashes into his back so hard it knocks him splat into the ground, He tries to turn over, gasping, but gets a knee in the kidneys for his pains.

There are already shots ringing before he finally sneaks out Maria and wriggles around enough to see what's happening; which turns out to be a nice clean kill all lined up for Arcade.

The thing that saves the doc isn't second guessing this headshot, still less any kind of sympathy, but just realising that a man with an energy weapon like that and a very tasty ripper has good and sufficient reasons for resorting to straight melee. Benny relaxes instead and listens to four assassins gurgle out their dying throes.

"Sorry about that," Arcade says when they're done. "I didn't want Boone to mistake you for a target."

"And that was the best plan you could think of?"

"That was the best plan I could think of." 

Benny goes "hmm" as a substitute for either anger or thanks and Arcade seems to accept it, finally getting off him with an apology.

He'd say it's all right, but there's a sniper with an NCR beret jogging up the road and he would really rather not be caught flirting with his saviour's boyfriend, if that's the relationship.

The annoying thing is that makes him feel a little bereft.

***

"I walked out, you know. When I found out what happened to you."

That draws a laugh out of Arcade, even if it's a mostly ironic one. "Somehow I think that's less about my inspiring heartfelt loyalty, and more about you having it in for the Legion." 

Boone almost cracks a smile, as he sets up again at his post. "Could be. Do you know where you're going, need any help?"

"Thanks, but...as you say, three is company. Besides, I think you'll do more good right here then you could with me."

The last part of that is just regular self-doubt; it's the first part that surprises him as he says it. There haven't exactly been any chances for chat, with armed chaperones; for all he knows Benny will be awake in three hours and heading straight back to New Vegas.

Boone nods, with the calm matter-of-fact acceptance he has. "Yeah, you looked good together. I remember how it was, with Carla...don't mind me. But be careful out there."

This lump in his throat needs to go away. "Thanks."

He should go straight to Daisy, he knows he should, but he's tired and on edge from weeks of adrenaline-fueled anxiety, he needs to sleep first. The fate of the Enclave can wait until morning.

So instead of heading to her room, he pulls himself up the stairs to the one Benny's rented. Not much to look at, turns out. Water has rads in it, furniture broken, dogmeat left on the table. After the Lucky 38, this place looks like the punishment in a very banal afterlife.

Benny is lying on the bed, suit off, and shakes his head when Arcade picks up the plate. "Forget the amenities, I have brahmin steaks."

"How did you even afford that?"

"Unlocked fridge. Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to."

On the moral calculus of having deliberately led four men to their deaths today, stolen steak is almost immaterial. He digs out a spork and gets to work, feeling steadier as the reality of the situation sets in.

He's not dead, and neither is the man who he's helped get here, and has helped him in turn. Plus, there's only one bed.

"So, are you staying here tonight or heading back to join Mr Nice Hat in the dinosaur?"

That's a question, and so is the one under it about "are you staying" and "what the hell do we mean to each other, anyway." The courier saved his life, he saved theirs, and that certainly didn't turn out to be a forever relationship.

"I think," Arcade says, quite carefully. "I think I would like to finish this steak, and drink something that isn't irradiated water, and then proceed to give you a very, very detailed description of interesting anatomical techniques I picked up in Freeside. And you can ask for any clarification desired."

"Atomic cocktail in the fridge," Benny says, an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upped the rating for sex and self harm, not at the same time.

Round three is definitely pushing the limit after the day he's had, but damned if he'll cop to being less horny than a Followers doctor.

Benny sucks meticulously, taste of sweat and leftover cum and Mojave dirt, the mildly unusual feel of a circumcised cock rolling in his mouth. He thinks about it, adds a little more tongue; Arcade makes a noise that sounds agonized.

Extensive practice enables him to get a sentence out without withdrawing. "Am I hurting you?"

"Ugh. No. Keep going."

Not exactly a necessary question. There's a blissed-out smile on the doc's face, framed by mussed hair and looking very vulnerable without the familiar glasses. 

"Will you even be able to see me without these on?" he'd asked, tucking them on top of a spare suitcase.

Arcade, already sans trousers, had shrugged. "Not really, but don't let that stop you."

Good thing he had removed them, or else they'd have been smashed up during the enthusiastic joggling in round two.

It's so much simpler doing this with men. They don't expect chitchat.

***

"Why- Arcade, it's so nice to see you! How have you been getting on?"

"Wonderful, Daisy," Arcade says. Pauses. That can't be right.

It is, though. He's well-rested, adequately fed and watered, and instead of waking up to assassins staring him down, had sunshine and a warm body trying to crowd him off the bed. Benny is apparently one of those people who likes occupying too much space, which figures.

"Well, I'm very glad for you. Always had hoped that you'd find a nice man to settle down with- and what a lovely suit, too!"

Arcade reminds himself that Daisy's ideal in clothing is an Enclave uniform. "For as long as we have to enjoy it, at least. Daisy, I have some bad news…"

Her glow of pleasure fades the further his explanation goes, amiable old Daisy replaced by the quick-thinking officer as sharp as she ever was. "So we don't know how much Orion told them."

"I tried to coax it out of Caesar, several times, but he was cagy about the circumstances. Maybe I should have tried harder…"

"Don't berate yourself, Arcade," she says seriously, taking his hands in her own. "You survived. You escaped, managing that much was a miracle in itself."

"Not a miracle. Men had to die before I made it here- I'm supposed to be a healer…"

"You know we didn't escape Navarro with bloodless hands."

That's the paradox he's always held at arms length, trying to cover up the despair with blind love; that he's been born into a murderous inheritance and done his best to escape it, only to be caught up again and again-

He wants, it occurs to him, to walk out of this room and not come back. But what he wants has never seemed to have much to do with his life.

"Anyway, we'll have to round up the others," Daisy muses. "But you don't need to worry about where we go, there's a contingency plan just for that." Her face brightens. "I'll even be able to fly my Vertibird again! Oh, you know how I've missed that."

In that case it's a wonder she's even still here. "Where on earth would we be going?"

"Judah tracked down some intel about an Alaskan base, close to where the Sino war ended. It didn't seem worthwhile going when we'd all settled down quietly, but if we have to escape anyway...even if nobody's there anymore, we can contrive to be very comfortable just by ourselves. And I'm sure it won't be any trouble bringing your young man along."

There are about fifty reasons why that sentence is a problem, and his tongue gets tangled on the least relevant. "My young man? Honestly, Daisy?"

"I'm so very pleased for you," she says; and her smile is sincere.

***

"I always did wonder how all these antiques ended smashed up like that," Benny says, leaning on the door frame.

Arcade spins around, blood dripping from his knuckles. "I didn't hear you come in."

Benny kneels down, starts cautiously gathering pieces of broken wardrobe glass. "You wouldn't have, the racket you were making. Look, I saw you hold your nerve through things that should have broken anyone. Is this a delayed reaction or did something big change?"

"How about you stop asking intelligent questions and talk about your sure-fire Caravan strategy or something inane like that." Arcade at least has the presence of mind to retrieve a stimpak from the fridge and apply it. 

"Because-"

He does not, Benny knows, want to finish that sentence. Because he hasn't anything else left, because he's been outmaneuvered by a fucking mailman in the only game he knows how to play, because Arcade Gannon's hair goes the colour of sunset in the evenings and he'd like to touch it considerably more often than he's had the chance to. "Because I love you, you idiot, and I'd like to know what made you think punching out glass doors was a good idea."

Arcade tosses the syringe into the bathroom, leans across the mold-streaked wall. "The Enclave plan is to leave the Mojave. What's left of us, anyway."

"And you don't want to go?"

"I don't want to stay, certainly. I don't want to go either- Benny, I don't know what I want. The one time in my life I felt even reasonably secure was with the Followers, and that bored me so much I ran off the moment that courier crooked a finger in my direction. All I do know is that now the plan is disappearing into the wilderness for good, and I don't know how many more times I can keep doing this to myself."

"Six months ago," Benny says, only a little ironically, "I could have given you all passports to the Strip."

"Six months ago you wouldn't have known me to care," Arcade retorts; and that irony is straight razor sharp but it sounds more like him than straight honesty. "I suppose we have that in common- where were you going? Back to the Tops to fight for your casino?"

"Not at least until I hear whether it's House or the courier who ends up dead. They can't both last there. No, I have a much better plan to keep me busy in the meantime." 

It really is quite clever, involving as it does the exploitation of a brand new market, relative physical safety, and best of all, no Mr House or NCR or Legion to worry about.

"The Boomers," Arcade manages, after a long silence. "This wonderful plan of yours is to go make contact with a tribe that considers shelling a friendly welcome."

"No risk, no gain. I got this map in a bet, you see-"

There is no point trying to communicate verbally with a man in the throes of a giggle fit, so he guides Arcade back to bed, holds that slim, trembling body until it calms enough to get some breath back. 

"I can't imagine why I expected anything else from Benny Gecko," Arcade manages eventually. "Sanity always seems to be one step ahead of me, but...I'm sorry, you don't deserve that."

"And you, honeycakes, deserve plenty better than me. But let's be honest, neither of us are likely to find it, are we?"

"Certainly not if I'm about to walk myself into an Enclave bunker for the rest of my life."

Arcade's shivering again, which is silly in the desert. Benny flips the filthy blinds up, opens the window, and retreats back to bed to take up duties as a big spoon.

The terrible part isn't even how he seems to have become the bedrock for someone's emotional life, that's just part of business in Vegas.

The terrible part is, he thinks he could get to like it.


	7. Chapter 7

Just because he knows he's dreaming doesn't stop it being terrifying.

Arcade struggles to wake, but his tired body isn't cooperating, just keeps churning out ever more complex mazes. It's like a compilation of everything that's ever seemed frightening about a vault, the sense of disorientation and crackle of background radiation, the zombefied vault dwellers who'll turn him on touch.

He blasts desperately with the plasma defender, crawling backwards as he does so, abruptly thumps down a step into cold stagnant water. The dampness in his boots feels real enough, sloshing and slimy in all the worst ways.

When a few moments go by without more enemies on the horizon, he backs slightly, gulps down liquid like a lapping dog. 

A slight clack makes him turn. There's a skeleton half-in and half-out of the water, flesh floating away from it in greasy chunks.

The shock of that, at least, finally triggers him to wake.

...and it's calmer than he expected. Novac motel room again.

Would have made sense if there was a threat here, anything alarming he couldn't respond to in sleep, but there's nothing except for the heat of a Mojave afternoon, so still nothing seems to be alive in the desert air except himself.

Benny is still unconscious besides him, having stolen all the blankets.

Arcade pries one back with difficulty, lets himself be consoled by soft flesh, the hum of another's heartbeat. At least part of this is residual guilt. Speaking about Remnant- no, about Enclave affairs to someone else, an outsider who can't be trusted.

He's been papering that over with his conscience by telling himself that Benny's different, and by any reasonable calculus that is utter piffle. Breaking the taboo on hurting a courier is about as dishonourable a feat as the Mojave can claim, there is no good reason to think that Benny wouldn't readily sell him out.

The plasma defender is still in a coat pocket, out of reach from this position; but Benny sleeps with Maria and it isn't difficult to wrangle the pistol free, aim it just at the same spot where the courier sports a shattered scar. Maybe it would be cleaner this way, for everyone.

Well. Not unless he finished himself off next.

The small pistol feels unusually heavy in his hand- would that be real silver inlaid, he can't tell for sure- it's decorated too, carved outline of a figure he doesn't recognize-

"Y'know, that's what makes you so loveable. One minute you're contemplating murder-suicide and the next you're too distracted by curiosity to focus on what had you down in the first place."

"Is the bit where I get sheepish about it also lovable?"

"Not half," Benny says, reaching out. Arcade proffers the gun back, but apparently the intent was just to fondle his collarbone.

So he hangs on to it instead, pulling on his glasses for a better look. Leaves him none the wiser.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what it refers to?"

"I think I'd rather leave you wondering. Shoot me and you'll never find out."

Arcade sighs, tucks the weapon back into Benny's holster; is rewarded by a heavy embrace that squeezes the breath out of him. He presses into it, willing the other man's steady calm to infect his own nerves.

"This is nice," he says after a while. "I don't want it to end."

"Cupcake, sweet smoocher man, we have all day."

Arcade splutters, draws away. " _Why_ am I attracted to you?"

"Because I'm just that charming, baby. And whoever it is you've fucked in your life, the list clearly hasn't involved nearly enough people who know how to get a laugh out of you. To say nothing about the part," Benny says, tickling him with hot fingertips, "where we have been playing the 'which one of us will betray the other to Caesar' game since the Fort, and somehow the answer works out to zero."

Laid out that way, it's unbelievable the possibility of being sold out in that fashion, yet again, didn't even occur to him. Sweet rads, is he ever ill-suited to the back-and-forth of Mojave life.

"This plan of yours, about the Boomers...do you really think it'll work?"

Benny goes quiet, for once. "Mr House worked out the probabilities. He was planning to send me to negotiate a treaty, it must be all right if you can get as far as the gate. The only trouble is reaching that far without being squashed into red paste."

"So you think it's worth a try."

"Only," Benny says, his voice finally turning serious, "if you want to live. If you want to be alive, stay in the Mojave so badly that you'll run like hell and eat shells and keep going, if you want to win enough that nothing will stop you."

After a moment, he adds, "If you need me enough to tag along, because Benny Gecko was never made for burying in a vault."

Arcade holds him close, inhaling desert wind and sage and the faint flavor of aftershave; and knows this is what he wants.

"Yeah. I'll come."

Damn Chairman grins, and tickles until he's howling with laughter.


End file.
